


Desperate Measures

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Channeling Marvin Gaye, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Greg needs Sexual Healing, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, POV Greg, Protective Mycroft, References to Depression, Sad Greg, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-05-01 01:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14509944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: How typical of my life right now, Greg thought, looking at the mess on his skin and the sofa. Can’t even get a decent wank to go my way.Greg's having a rough time. He decides drastic action is the only solution, but will it address his deeper issues?





	1. Chapter 1

“What the hell are you drinking, boss?”

Greg winced, knowing it was futile to hide it now. He pulled out the shaker and held it up for Sally’s inspection. Noting her look of disgust, he too examined the thick grey-green liquid, wincing as it slopped up the sides.

“Meal replacement shake,” he replied, taking the shaker back. He held Donovan’s unbelieving gaze as he flicked open the lid and forced down a mouthful. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever ingested (God knew his ex-wife could _not_ cook), but he certainly didn’t look forward to it, either.

“What’s in it?” asked Sally, in a voice that made it clear she wasn’t sure she actually wanted to know.

“Meal replacement powder, greens boost, banana, blueberries, almond milk, flaxseed,” Greg recited, “rich in protein and micronutrients.”

“And why…”

Greg sighed, not wanting to explain his insecurities to Sally, the least discrete person in the known universe. “I don’t get out to run much lately. Just trying to take better care of myself.” He didn’t even sound convincing to his own ears, and Sally’s face reflected her own doubts about this regimen.

“Right.” Sally’s voice was flat, the careful tone of one keeping their opinion to themselves. “Well, um, good on you, I guess.”

“Thanks,” said Greg, happy to cut off any further discussion. He resolutely took another swig of the shake before asking, “What did you want, anyway?”

+++

Maybe if he stared hard enough, the unappetising chicken and steamed vegetables would morph into a steak and chips. Unlikely, Greg thought to himself. Christ, but he was hungry. It was all well and good to want to keep the middle aged spread at bay, but no beer, no steak, and only two coffees a day? He might just be trading his physical health for his mental health.

As he poked the portion controlled chicken with his fork, a vision rose in front of Greg’s eyes, the original impetus for this change. It was thirty years since his father died in his arms, the grey face gasping for air, hands clutching at his son’s trembling fists before the final terrible exhalation had heralded the end of his life. Greg knew he was predisposed to the same diseases that had contributed to his father’s early death – high cholesterol, high blood pressure, weight-related diabetes. Seeing his waistline expand, Greg had waived it off until with a jolt one day he noticed the date at the top of an email.

 _December 7 th_. He’d sat at his desk, the sweat beading on his face as snapshots of that day flashed past his eyes. For a moment he thought the tightness in his chest was the same…a gasp, the horror filling him until a deep breath had flooded his lungs, making him realise it was his panicky shallow breathing rather than a heart attack. Closing his eyes, Greg took several deep, shuddering breaths. He had no children, nobody to leave behind really, but still, the idea of going like that, still relatively young, skin turning grey, terror and regret in on his face…That was the day he walked into the local chemist who’d been advertising a program he suspected was aimed squarely at his demographic. Less than half an hour later he’d walked out with several huge tubs of meal replacement powder and a program of diet and exercise.

Two weeks later, the bloom was well and truly off the rose. Greg allowed his mind to wander as he forced down a few bites of the chicken and vegetables before pushing it away, even thoughts of his childhood and random song lyrics failing to distract him from the bland meal. His stomach protested as he scraped the remains into the bin, but there was no way he could make himself eat more of it. Dirty dishes in the sink, Greg scrubbed one hand over his face. Might as well go to bed, then.

The next morning, despite his protesting bones, Greg dragged himself out of bed and plodded around the park, feeling old and heavy and thoroughly sorry for himself. Sleep had been a long time coming, and he barely felt rested. Returning home, Greg fought a wave of grim gratitude at his forethought – there was nothing to eat or drink in his whole flat apart from the makings of his chicken dinners and shakes. Nothing to mindlessly shove in his mouth after a run, staring at the weird stain on the wall as he chewed.

He showered, the growling of his stomach replaced by a gnawing emptiness. Even after a shower, the idea of another shake was more than he could stomach. A cup of coffee would have to suffice for breakfast – an expensive new blend he’d bought to try and offset the two-cups-a-day limit. Greg prepared his lunchtime shake as he drank the coffee, ignoring how it made his empty stomach roil. Better than nothing, he tried to convince himself. At least he was getting a caffeine hit out of it. Having fastened his belt one notch tighter at the start of the week, Greg knew it was working on his waistline, if not his attitude.

“Good breakfast, boss?” Sally asked with a smirk. Greg glanced around then flipped her the bird, scowling as she chuckled and walked away. He stashed his bag before sitting at his desk, bending to pick up the shaker as it spilled to the floor.

“Fuck…” Greg felt the room tilt, almost falling out of his chair at the sudden dizziness. Grabbing at the edge of his desk, he blinked rapidly until things righted themselves. The last of his disorientation melted away as he sat still, breathing deeply. Must have overdone it at the park, he thought to himself, ignoring the voice that reminded him he’d barely eaten anything since lunchtime yesterday. Filling his water bottle, Greg drank half of it down, hoping the liquid might trick his stomach into believing it wasn’t so empty.

“Boss, we gotta go,” announced Sally, bursting into his office before leaving again without further comment. Swearing to himself, Greg grabbed his jacket and followed her. Hopefully it would be a good solid murder to distract him from what was becoming a pretty miserable existence.

+++

It was déjà vu, the bad kind, Greg decided, ten hours later. The scene had been pretty straightforward and he’d been able to leave at a reasonable time, forcing himself to struggle around the park once again before collapsing into the shower. He’d broken his two cups of coffee rule, feeling reckless as he took five minutes to sneak into a little café across from the scene. Greg wavered over the sugar/milk/sweetener options before resigning himself to skimmed milk and three sweeteners.

That had been the high point of his day, which was saying something. He’d forgotten his shake in the hurry to leave and had used every last bit of willpower to say no to the Chinese food run everyone else had so eagerly jumped at early in the afternoon. The coffee had been pretty average, but the constant smirking from Donovan and Anderson, and eventually everyone at the scene, told him the ribbing about his new health kick was about to begin. He’d countered it for today by returning the smirks with his blackest scowls, daring anyone to say a word. It had worked for today and at this scene, but it was likely that tomorrow would be a different story. Figuring he would be giving the same black look a workout tomorrow too, Greg aimed it at his dinner as he once again forced down the unappetising meal, or some of it, at least.

Deciding he’d already broken one rule today, and another wouldn’t be the end of the world, Greg took down the bottle of Scotch he’d relegated to the back of the cupboard. He poured a restrained two fingers and sank onto the sofa. The restless discontent was still with him, and swirling his Scotch was only good for so much distraction. Frowning, Greg tried to put his finger on the source of his irritation. He knew there was something, but it wasn’t until the Scotch was gone (how did that happen?) he was tipsy enough to admit it to himself. The little food he’d eaten had made even this meagre measure of alcohol rush to his head, and he couldn’t deny it any longer.

He was disappointed.

The murder victim today had been a young white male, probably educated but with no ID. A flutter had run through Greg’s stomach when one of the crime scene techs had carelessly remarked, “Might be a Government boy”. _Mycroft._ The possibility had been tantalising; there might be a reason for Mycroft to attend this scene.

In the end, he’d been an average Joe, a jeweller killed for the diamonds he was transporting across the city. The mundane solution, pedestrian by Greg’s standards, had been disappointing, and not only because the disgruntled worker had broken down with barely a stern glance. The clean-up crew arriving signalled the end of Greg’s involvement, and he’d found himself glancing around on the off chance a sleek black town-car would be waiting. None were, of course, and now he found himself sitting at home, empty Scotch glass mirroring his mood.

With the truth out there, in his head at least, Greg allowed himself to consider the details that always stuck with him after a meeting with Mycroft. The long fingers, flexing around a delicate umbrella handle. A raised eyebrow, coupled with a wry smile. The slight chuckle he’d heard only a few times, yet remembered with such clarity. Greg shifted his hips as he thought about the time Mycroft had turned to look at someone behind him, craning his neck so the tendons stood out, a tempting stretch of skin that made Greg swallow down the urge to lick a stripe from collar to ear. The man clearly had no idea how attractive he was; the cold façade was almost comical in its aloof fragility. There was a fearful man under that front, and it fascinated Greg no end. He reckoned he could crack it without breaking a sweat, as long as he didn’t mind risking permanent incarceration – or worse – if Mycroft took offence.

As he thought about that moment again, Greg felt his body responding. His trousers tightened as he imagined the look on Mycroft’s face had he in fact stepped forward and breathed in, a proper lungful of the scent that had tortured him with fleeting wafts over the years. He licked his lips, tasting the ghost of sweat and that individual collection of proteins that made certain people irresistible. Greg put his tumbler down, the heel of his hand pressing down his erection as it passed. The pressure made him groan, a quiet sound in his still little flat. With a despairing moan, Mycroft’s face rose in his vision, and Greg found his hands fumbling at the newly tightened belt, tugging down his fly. In slow motion, Mycroft’s face smiled, a slightly fuzzy recollection of the one and only genuine smile Greg had ever witnessed, now prompting his fingers to curl around his swiftly hardening self, stroking hard and fast. Pulling pleasure through his body, Greg’s fist flew, his mind throwing images and fantasies of Mycroft at him until his rhythm faltered, hot come landing on his belly as the orgasm pulsed through him. As climaxes went it was a bit perfunctory, though dark spots imposed on his vision after. He breathed deeply as the spots lingered, waiting for his heartrate to return to normal.

How typical of my life right now, Greg thought, looking at the mess on his skin and the sofa. Can’t even get a decent wank to go my way.

He wondered what Mycroft was doing, but quashed the thought immediately. Standing up slowly, Greg made sure he was steady before shuffling into the bathroom. Once again he felt older than his years, and now he was lonely to boot.


	2. Chapter 2

His ceiling was grey. Greg wondered fleetingly if it had been painted since the flat was built. The only light was from his phone, buzzing and blinking as the alarm rang and rang. Greg didn’t even have the energy to turn it off, let alone set out on the run he had planned. The sound was background to his mind, like the weight of his limbs or the raw acid of his stomach. One hand ran across his stomach, still soft but closer to flat than it had been for a long time. With an immense effort Greg slapped at his phone, hitting the off button.

 _Get up_ , he told himself. _Get up or you’ll end up like him._ The vision of his Dad’s face rose in his mind, propelling him upwards, legs over the side of his bed. Greg stopped, breathing hard, eyes clenched as he rode the waves of dizziness. It took five long deep breaths before it began to recede and he could open his eyes. Bracing himself, Greg stood, reaching for the dresser, anticipating the weakness in his legs and tilt of the room. When the world righted again, he moved slowly, showering, dressing in whatever was closest _(better not run this morning, pick a shirt, that one will do)_.

Despite the belt now cinching two notches tighter than it had, Greg felt terrible. The soft paunch had been pretty bad, and he’d hated the tighter fit to his clothes, the way some of his slimmer fit shirts were now uncomfortable around the middle. The promise of a flatter stomach and the erasure of his hint of a double chin had been motivation enough. At least he hadn't looked like death warmed over, though. With any luck he’d be able to look in the mirror without despairing, Greg had told himself. Now he avoided the mirror, though it was impossible to shave without staring at his own face. Between the grey pallor, blood-shot eyes and massive bags he looked ten years older. _Can’t win_ , the voice in his mind said. _Fat or old. Oh, and the hair doesn’t help_ , it added viciously as he quietly turned out the bathroom light.

In the kitchen, he hesitated, vacillating between coffee and a shake. Coffee won out, the caffeine being the clincher; it would make him feel better, he tried to convince himself. He forced himself to prepare a shake to take to work – he was determined not to eat anything but what was on the program (Scotch had been bad enough yesterday). The idea of the shake made his stomach clench unpleasantly in protest, but Greg ignored it, tucking the shaker into his bag. He picked up the bag slowly, bending at his knees, gritting his teeth against the pull of gravity. A second deep breath and Greg headed out the door. Another day to endure.

+++

As it turned out, Greg only lasted a few hours.

He’d made it to work, grateful for the first time for paperwork. It gave him an easy excuse to stay at his desk for the morning. He’d managed to choke down part of his shake, though he’d now put it aside as he focused on the masses of paper. Sally had been in and out as they’d collaborated on some of the documents; he’d seen the first concerned look she’d shot his way, and studiously avoided her gaze ever since. It seemed to take a lot more concentration than usual for him to fill in the boxes, the page sometimes swimming in front of his eyes. Two hours of focus and Greg was exhausted. He was staring at the morning’s shake, wondering if his stomach would tolerate any of it at all, when Sally opened his door.

“Got a body, boss,” she told him. It wasn’t until she was gone he registered the apprehension on her face and in her voice. He nodded to the empty office before he stood up, breathing in and giving himself a moment to stabilise before walking out the door. He was feeling alright, if a little disconnected, until they arrived at the scene. Sally stepped out of the car first, leaving Greg to follow as she made her way to the cordoned off area.

Greg stepped out of the car, turned and dropped into blackness.

+++

Something smelled good, like sandalwood or something. Fancy candles like his ex-used to burn.

He was warm, almost too warm but not enough to move.

“Drink this,” a smooth voice said. He was lying down, probably. Definitely, as strong fingers tucked under his neck, tilting his head to meet the lip of a cup. It was sweet, something sweet between his lips and in his throat (swallow, swallow).

“Good, Gregory,” the voice praised him. It was soothing and deep, helping him stay comfortably calm. A very small voice wondered where he was, but the cotton wool over his brain effectively smothered it. He was safe and warm and lying down, which was enough.

He drifted away again.

+++

The good smell was back (had it ever left?), and Greg opened his eyes to find the source. A pair of gentle grey eyes met his. Why were they familiar? Thoughts shifted sluggishly, until a name rose to the surface of his mind.

“Mycroft,” whispered Greg. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” the smooth voice came from Mycroft’s mouth. It took a moment for the two pieces to come together. Mycroft’s eyes roved his face as his mind worked. He looked concerned, Greg realised.

“What?” Greg asked. He licked his lips, a ghost of sweetness still there. “What happened?”

“You passed out,” said Mycroft. “You were checked you over and you do not appear to be suffering an illness.” He hesitated as though he might be prying. “Are you well?”

Greg watched his face as he spoke, feeling the flush rise in his face, glad he was lying down. “Where am I?” he asked, the information suddenly important.

“I had you transported to my residence,” replied Mycroft. “We are in my guest suite.”

“Right.” Greg blinked, assimilating the information. Your basic nightmare scenario, then. Handsome man finally notices you when you dramatically drop at his feet. Not pathetic at all, Lestrade.

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Mycroft, his tone kind but determined. “Are you well, Gregory?”

“I haven’t…I don’t know,” Greg found himself answering. The words tumbled out without him thinking. “My dad…he died…a long time ago, but…I don’t want to do that, I want to be healthier. I don’t want to die…like that, in pain. Scared, he was so frightened.”

Mycroft looked at him, calculating. “You watched your father die.” Greg nodded, the grey eyes mesmerising. “The anniversary was very recent.” Another nod. Mycroft was still for another long time before he asked quietly, “Have you been eating, Gregory?”

Greg had to consider the question. He had been intending to eat. He had been preparing food, but thinking back, struggling to drag his mind across the last few days, it was hard to remember. “I’ve been…I don’t know. There were…I was making meal replacement shakes. But…”

“They were inedible,” Mycroft supplied, his nose wrinkling with distaste.

“Yeah,” Greg replied, trying to smile and knowing he failed. “Pretty bad.”

Mycroft’s face was grave. “You need nourishment, Gregory.” The admonishment was gentle but firm. “Please allow me to provide you with something to eat.”

Greg raised a hand in protest. “No, really, I’m…fine…” he said. As he tried to sit up the room spun alarmingly, and he found himself grasped in careful arms. For his slim silhouette Mycroft was surprisingly strong, preventing Greg from falling back against the bed, hands splayed across his bicep and shoulder blade. It was torture, being so close to Mycroft, having a wealth of new expressions for his greedy eyes to devour, not to mention being completely enveloped in the scent of the man. Greg closed his eyes, partly to stop the world spinning, mainly to escape the mortification of his circumstances. How could he end up here, of all places, looking like death and hardly able to sit up on his own? Mycroft must think him pathetic. He breathed deeply, fighting the torrent of vicious self-recrimination in his head.

“Lie down, Gregory. I am going to have to insist on you eating something.”

Mycroft’s voice sounded further away than it should, if they were his hands, Greg thought. The hands guided him down, then left him briefly. Greg’s eyes were still closed, but he heard Mycroft shifting away, and then back again.

“Gregory?” the voice was tentative, and he gritted his teeth before opening his eyes. Mycroft’s face appeared before him, a comforting combination of concern, patience and determination.

“Oh, there you are,” Greg found himself saying.

“I have chicken soup and beef stew,” Mycroft said quietly. “Which would you prefer?”

“Soup,” said Greg, because it sounded easier. He struggled to sit up again, but felt a hand on his shoulder.

“No,” Mycroft told him, tucking a pillow behind his head.

Greg was confused until Mycroft returned, tucking a cloth napkin into Greg’s collar before offering him a spoonful of soup. He looked at it for a moment, floating somewhere between humiliation and the sudden urge to cry at this consideration. Resignedly, he opened his mouth, feeling vaguely like a child kept home from school. The soup was rich and flavoursome, an enormous step up from the little he’d eaten in the last few days. They did not speak, Mycroft spooning manageable portions into Greg’s waiting mouth until the small bowl was empty. Greg’s head was spinning and he was glad to have the excuse not to make conversation.

“Thank you,” he said when Mycroft was done.

“You are welcome,” Mycroft murmured. He sat and looked at Greg for a few moments, a complex swirl of expression crossing his face before he sighed.

“What?” Greg asked. He was quite drowsy now – warm and full, with a blanket and a pillow. There was something safe about having Mycroft around, too. It made him feel heavy, his limbs sinking into the softness below, eyes blinking slowly, slowly…

“You should sleep,” Mycroft said.

Suspicious bloomed in Greg, and he said, “Something in the soup…”

“My apologies,” Mycroft’s voice was coming from far away again, “but I must insist you rest.”

+++

The ceiling was wrong.

When Greg woke, he stared for a moment at the pristine ceiling above him. This was not his flat. Not with a ceiling like that. He looked around without moving his head, wondering…until the astonishing sight of Mycroft Holmes sleeping upright in an armchair brought the previous day back. Well, most of it anyway. Greg opened his mouth to speak, noticing as he did the tiny snores coming from Mycroft. They were adorable, he thought.

“My-mycroft?” Greg tried. His mouth was dry and the words stuck, so he tried again. “Mycroft?”

At the sound of his name, Mycroft’s eyes opened, focussing almost immediately on Greg.

“Gregory,” he said, and it was only the slightly gravelly timbre that gave away how recently he had woken. “My profound apologies for doctoring your meal.” He leaned forward, offering Greg a glass of water, which he took gratefully.

“What time is it?” Greg asked. He’d been at the crime scene. He and Sally had been at the crime scene, mid-morning sometime, and then....nothing. Nothing until he’d woken here, in Mycroft’s home.

“5.31am,” Mycroft answered with his usual precision.

“Holy shit, I slept a whole day almost,” Greg muttered.

“You were exhausted,” Mycroft said, wincing as he stretched his neck.

“I was drugged,” Greg shot back.

Mycroft sat upright, his posture impeccable, his face impassive. “You were not, actually.”

Greg stared. “But you apologised…”

Mycroft shook his head slightly, and explained. “I added a meal replacement powder to your soup, along with several isotonic substances designed to stabilise your blood chemistry.”

“So…not a sleeping tablet, then.” Greg said. At Mycroft’s shaken head he muttered, “Sorry, Mycroft.”

“A reasonable assumption, given how easily you fell asleep and how long you remained so,” Mycroft replied. His face changed, and Greg was fascinated at the expressions he had never had the opportunity to see. Mycroft was usually so impassive, and yet in the few moments Greg had been lucid enough to watch him, his face had been as expressive as a child. The thought brought something new to mind and Greg frowned.

“I don’t know…when you brought me here…how did that happen?” he asked. It wasn’t the question he’d set out to ask, but it was a good stepping stone. Provided he had the guts to ask, of course.

“I was waiting at Piccadilly Place,” Mycroft said simply. “The victim was…known to me. Professionally.”

Greg nodded.

“I saw you fall,” Mycroft said, and it was there again, the something… he cleared his throat. “My staff are trained in first response. Once they ascertained you were in no immediate danger, I offered your Sergeant to take responsibility for your recuperation.” His looked a little apprehensive. “She informed me you live alone.”

“I do,” Greg confirmed automatically.

“I had my driver bring you here, and my personal doctor ensured you were medically well, if undernourished and dehydrated. A fact that confirmed your Sergeant’s suspicion that you have been over zealous in your weight loss regimen, Gregory.”

Greg felt the flush race up his face, no doubt turning it fire-engine red. “Yeah, well…” he mumbled. “Not that it matters…” The thought had fluttered around the edges of his consciousness, when his grey life and grey flat and grey hair had combined to press into him with such force it left him breathless. _Why bother…_ He jerked when he felt the first tentative brush against his hand. Startled, he looked down to see Mycroft’s hand on the blanket, inches from his own, where it had moved away from Mycroft’s touch.

“There are people who would miss you,” Mycroft said in such a low voice Greg almost thought he had imagined it.

“I…are there?” Greg whispered. The quiet air shifted slowly around them as they breathed. This moment, as fragile as gossamer, felt important. Oddly safe, as though words whispered would be precious, treated solemnly. Treasured.

“There are,” Mycroft replied. He was addressing Greg’s fingers, his own twitching but remaining in one place.

“It doesn’t…it’s pretty lonely. At the moment.” Greg admitted.

“I know.” Mycroft said.

“Do you?” Greg asked, his voice reaching for Mycroft. Pleading for his understanding, ignoring the sneering commentary in his mind about _pathetic men, weak men, desperate men…_

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Not,” Mycroft said, “if you let me help.”

“You think I need help?” Greg asked.

“I want to help,” Mycroft replied carefully, “which is not precisely the same. Although given the last twenty-four hours, I would respectfully venture that yes, perhaps you do.”

“What kind of help?” Greg asked warily. “What are you…offering, Mycroft?” He yearned for Mycroft to be saying what he wanted to hear. _Want me_ , he screamed internally. _Please, please…_ The voice sneered again, at his desperation, at the massive void between his own pitiable image and the gorgeous vision before him.

“Let me take care of you,” Mycroft whispered. “Let me…show you. Help you to see…what I see.” His fingers moved slowly, fingertips shifting to cover Greg’s littlest finger, brushing gently against his skin. It felt like sparks along his hand. Like potential and hope.

Greg swallowed hard. “What do you see?”

Mycroft lifted his eyes to Greg’s, and finally, there was an expression Greg could read. It was soft, gentle, full of the kind of affection and care Greg could not ever remember having directed his way. Astonishment filled him that it was now clearly intended for him from this remarkable man. It promised slow and careful. Hinted at light touches as though he was precious and rare. Breathed whispers that he was something to be cherished. And it was fragile, the moment tenuous as though one huff of breath in the wrong place might shatter it, never to be resurrected.

“I see…you,” Mycroft replied simply. “I see a man waiting. Perhaps not knowing that he is, but nevertheless, waiting.”

“For you?”

“Oh, I hope so,” Mycroft breathed. “I pray that you are. And I will spend all of my days showing you, if you will let me.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, there was quite a lot of research - and a bit of 'yep, it fits, I'm gonna leave it'. If there's anything factual that's glaringly incorrect, let me know - otherwise let's just enjoy the story together :)  
> P.S. Remember that Mycroft, while frighteningly intelligent, is not a doctor - so his medical knowledge may not be 100% accurate. We can forgive him that, can't we?

“You thought I was waiting.”

Greg had drifted off again when Mycroft had left him to rest, though he still woke feeling drained to see Mycroft softly closing the door to his room. It was late afternoon, but he was sure he’d still sleep that evening. He’d been tired before all this, and now his energy just seemed to drain with every conversation. Despite this, he found his mouth opening, the words coming to him as Mycroft arranged himself next to him again.

Mycroft had returned looking tentative, drawing the chair back to the bed slowly as though giving Greg the opportunity to object.

“I did,” he said quietly. “I do.”

“What…what did you mean by that?” Greg knew he sounded hesitant. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear Mycroft’s reply. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear whatever truth Mycroft would certainly have observed about him. His desperation was probably obvious to Mycroft, but Greg was simply pretending it didn’t exist. He had no idea how to address it, or any of this.

The one thing he did know was that he didn’t want to let this, whatever it was with Mycroft, slip through his fingers.

Mycroft, for his part, was watching Greg. When Greg looked at him, the grey eyes dropped and they both watched long fingers twist absently on fine, dark wool. It was an oddly unsettled gesture from the usually reserved man, and Greg found himself raising his eyes to study Mycroft’s expression.

It took him a few seconds to figure out what was strange about Mycroft’s face. With a jolt, he realised he could see the expression shifting as Mycroft thought. He had let his guard down, and the trust implicit in such an action astonished Greg.

Impulsively, Greg reached one hand out, covering Mycroft’s nervous fingers with his own hand. When startled eyes sought his, he smiled a little. Encouraging Mycroft to stay open to him.

Mycroft’s face reflected panic, confusion, surprise, and then, thankfully, hesitant acceptance.

“I,” Mycroft began…and stopped. He took a deep breath, eyes still locked on Greg. “I have been waiting,” he said, the admission bringing colour to his pale complexion. “I am familiar with what it feels like,” he said without judgement, “and I saw myself reflected in you.”

Greg stared. It sounded like gibberish but somehow it rang true. He willed Mycroft to continue.

“Forgive my intrusion,” Mycroft continued, “but your father’s death…was he ill?”

Greg swallowed hard, pushing down images of his father. He nodded. “Chronic. Mostly weight related. Diabetes, high-cholesterol, high blood pressure…” his voice trailed off as he remembered the home-visit nurses, the rows of medication he’d been sternly warned against touching, the arguments when his mother stuck to preparing the recommended meal plan.

Mycroft nodded. “And you feel…susceptible?”

Mutely, Greg nodded.

“Forgive me,” Mycroft said again, “but might I assume you’ve been conscious of your weight ever since?”

Another nod. Another rush of memories.

His mother’s anxiety, driven by her loyalty to her husband’s demands over those of his doctors. Greg’s attempts to smooth the waters, eating according to the meal plan, never deviating, his juvenile brain equating his effort with his mother’s happiness, his father’s health, the serenity of the household. Even as an adult, the guilt with each serve of hot chips or takeaway was there, though he’d pushed it down for a good twenty years now.

Having to let out his belt had been a shock. One of his last vivid memories of his father was watching from the doorway as he struggled to do up his belt, the leather straining against his overlarge stomach.

The memory had hit him hard, leaving him gasping, which only exacerbated the situation. Eventually, he’d gotten control and headed to work, only to notice the date at the top of an email.

December 7th.

“Yes,” Greg answered finally. “My mother…tried following the doctor’s menu. Easier for me to follow it, to keep a little bit of the peace.”

Mycroft nodded, and Greg suspected he’d understood more from that that he’d actually said. The silence fell for a moment until he cleared his throat, sending a jolt through Greg.

“So,” Mycroft said, and something in his tone told Greg he was trying to find the right words, “do you think it’s possible you are…more concerned than strictly necessary, given the current parameters on your health?”

It took Greg a few minutes to translate that.

“You think I’m overreacting,” he said. He frowned, trying to figure out how he felt about that.

“Possibly.” Mycroft agreed delicately. He paused and added, “Did you visit your GP before embarking on this diet?”

“No.”

“And have you ever had a medical report that indicated you were at a higher-than-usual risk of a heart attack?”

“No,” Greg admitted. He could feel that the frown was well in place now. Mycroft was asking questions he’d never considered, and the answers – ill formed though they were – had begun dismantling one of the basic tenants of his life.

“Might I suggest you see a doctor? They would be able to give you an objective assessment of your weight and general health.” He risked a small smile. “You never know, it might be good news.”

Greg knew he was shooting Mycroft a disbelieving look. Good news? About his sky-high risk of diabetes, high cholesterol, high blood pressure…

With a peculiar look at Mycroft, Greg realised he had always pictured himself dying...well, not young exactly, but certainly not old. Sooner than he wanted to. Not from a gunshot, or a freak accident, but a heart attack like his father, grey in the face and gasping for breath.

“Why are you asking me this?” Greg asked.

Mycroft blinked at him. “I am wondering what you have based you belief on. You seem very sure of your heightened risk, and I was wondering if you had medical evidence to support it.”

“No, I…” Greg frowned. “He was my dad. Of course I’ll be at risk of whatever he died from.”

“Not necessarily,” Mycroft said, and those two words said with such certainty were Greg’s undoing.

_Mycroft never makes statements he can’t back up._

_What if he’s right?_

_Why do I believe this?_

_Oh, God, what if…_

“No, I…” he started, but couldn’t continue. He couldn’t remember why he’d started, actually. The questions Mycroft was asking were things he’d never considered. That was probably his own fault, his reluctance to discuss the issue with anyone. Nobody had ever known enough to challenge his ingrained beliefs.

Until now.

“What if…I think you’re wrong…you can’t be, it...can’t,” Greg babbled. He was suddenly acutely aware of his thudding heart in his chest. It thumped, fast and strong, faster than normal, much faster…

Panic attack.

_I’m having a panic attack. Or a heart attack? What’s the difference?_

Greg had no idea, and the uncertainty punished him as he gasped for air.

_Breathing rapid and shallow, heart fast, oh God my face is going to explode, what if this is it, the end, I can’t…_

He rolled over, closing in on himself.

“Breathe with me.”

Words in his ear. Solid words. Calm.

Something behind him, moving slowly, carrying him in a steady rhythm.

“Feel me breathing. In, out. In. Out.”

It was Mycroft’s voice, and as Greg fought with his body his frightened mind grasped hold of that last vestige of hope. With an enormous effort he drew in a deep breath, ignoring his lungs screaming, the pounding of his heart against his ribs.

“Good, now hold it…and breathe out,” Mycroft’s voice came again, gently encouraging him.

Greg held on as tight as he could. The breathing was slow and he focused his mind on it, pushing the screaming out of his head, filling it instead with patient Mycroft, understanding Mycroft, calm Mycroft…

His Mycroft.

It took forever. It took every moment of Greg’s awareness. There was nothing before the panic, nothing in his memory except Mycroft and his breathing.

When Greg’s body finally accepted the slower rate of respiration and took control, his mind was free to register other stimuli. His fingers were painfully clenching something. Cold sweat on his face. Something warm and solid wrapped around his body. Fabric against his face.

The pieces came together in one picture.

He was lying on the bed. Mycroft was holding him, his head pressed to Greg’s, mouth against his ear, whispering encouragement and instructions, pulling him back from the edge of the abyss.

“Mycroft,” Greg heard himself murmur. His voice was too far away, too echo-y, his body remote. He was exhausted, every muscle aching, even his fingers stiff with inactivity.

“Go to sleep,” Mycroft’s voice came, mercifully gentle. “We can talk more later.”

“Alright,” Greg said automatically. It was as easy as letting go, allowing himself to be drawn into slumber.

+++

“You had a panic attack.”

Greg was still blinking the heaviness from his eyes when Mycroft spoke. He could feel the confusion on his face that must have prompted Mycroft’s words. Processing the idea, he wondered how Mycroft knew for certain.

“If it was a heart attack you’d probably be dead. Or at least in more pain.”

Greg had no idea if this was right, but Mycroft spoke with such an air of authority he was happy to accept it. He stretched carefully, feeling like he’d had a big night without the big night. Gingerly he sat up, smiling wanly as Mycroft passed him a cup of tea.

“Thank you,” Greg said, infusing the words with more meaning that the tea necessarily warranted.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “Do you remember what we were talking about earlier?”

Greg nodded. He was grateful for the sleep, however long it had been; it allowed him to put that conversation behind him, distance himself a little from his immediate reaction. With so little time to consider the new idea – and so many years of rock-solid belief behind him – Greg was still unclear how he felt about it all.

But he knew Mycroft, knew the analyst behind the shuttered expression, and there was little Mycroft could not accomplish if he set his mind to it. And apparently, he’d set his mind to Greg Lestrade. There was no escaping it.

“So what now?” Greg found himself asking. He wasn’t entirely opposed to exploring this with Mycroft, given how far they’d already come.

“That depends. I could go about convincing you of my assertions, or we could leave this and never speak of it again.”

Greg looked at him in astonishment. “You’d do that?”

Mycroft met his eyes, and the profound sadness on his face was raw and unedited. “Your loss would break my heart,” he replied quietly, “for I would not be able to see you if you chose to continue as you are.”

Greg’s mind kicked into gear again. He had nothing to lose by hearing Mycroft out. The fact that he desperately wanted the man to be right, wanted to let go of the burden that had shadowed his entire adult life – that was irrelevant.

“Okay,” Greg said, setting his tea down. “Convince me.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied, clearing his throat and placing his own teacup carefully in its saucer. “How much do you know about your father’s military service?”

Greg stared. “Not much,” he replied. He had no idea where Mycroft was going with this, but his experience with Sherlock told him it was far easier to answer the questions. They’d get to the point eventually.

“He served in an admin role, I think,” Greg said. “Somewhere in…Hampshire?”

“Correct,” Mycroft replied. “Do you know why he was not deployed to Korea?”

“No,” Greg said. Why had he never asked? “He never spoke much about it. I just assumed…” he shrugged. He’d never wondered enough to form a hypothesis, he’d just accepted it.

“Your father attempted to enlist when the Korean War broke out,” Mycroft began without consulting any document. “His initial medical assessment showed a congenital heart defect which nowadays would be easily repaired. In 1950, however, it automatically excluded him from active duty and in fact would probably have affected his quality of life. He would certainly have been warned of its impact on his health, particularly if he did not take measures to ensure his overall wellbeing.”

“So…what? What are you telling me?” Greg knew the words sounded overly dramatic but he didn’t care. He wanted Mycroft to be blunt, clear, unmistakable in his meaning.

“Your father’s heart would have probably caused his premature death regardless of other factors. But he must have known the increased risk of his obesity.”

Mycroft’s voice was somewhere between matter-of-fact and empathetic as he systematically pulled the foundations from the cornerstone of Greg’s life.

His dad had died from obesity related health issues. Greg was at risk of the same.

_No._

His dad had died from a congenital heart condition exacerbated by his obesity. Greg was at no greater risk of a heart attack than anyone else.

It was…bizarre. Completely at odds with Greg’s accepted world view. Mycroft might as well have tried to convince him the sky was pink. And yet…

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as anyone without a medical degree and first-hand examination of the patient can be,” Mycroft replied. He shifted closer, his expression softening. “I’m sorry. I know this is a shock. But your father’s heart was weaker than it should have been. His weight undoubtedly contributed to his death, but if his heart had been normal, he probably wouldn’t have died that day.”

“But the doctor said…”

“Did you speak to him?”

“No.”

“It’s quite possible he assumed you knew, or that your father simply never mentioned it, even to his doctor. A patient with such significant weight related illnesses – his heart condition might simply have been overlooked, especially if your father was reluctant to submit to further tests. I would suggest your father was not conscientious about visiting for check-ups.”

Greg marvelled again at Mycroft’s insight. His father had hated doctors. Do-gooders telling him how to live his life, he’d rant, once the doctor had shaken his head and left again. And then he’d shouted for another dessert, and don’t skimp on the cream this time…

“So…”

“If your heart is normal, Greg, you’re at no more risk than any other man your age, in your state of health.”

“Right.”

Mycroft hesitated. “I have a personal doctor on call. Very discrete. He could be here in an hour if you would like a…comprehensive overview of your health.”

Without thinking, Greg nodded, his mind swirling. He could see where he stood. Where his blood pressure and cholesterol sat. If his heart sounded normal…

Dazed, he looked at Mycroft. “Are you…I mean, what should I do?”

The words sounded like a little boy asking for advice, he thought, but that was exactly how he felt. Adrift, the basic tenants of his life now useless, based on erroneous data, as Mycroft would say.

He had no idea what to do.

“Assuming you are otherwise well,” Mycroft said, “might I then suggest meeting with my nutritionist? If you genuinely wish to take a different approach to your diet, he will be able to make suggestions far more palatable than the shakes you’ve been imbibing.”

“Okay,” Greg replied wearily. He rubbed one hand over his eyes. It was a lot to take in. He heard Mycroft shift uncomfortably in the armchair.

“I will summon him for tomorrow morning,” Mycroft said quietly, tapping at his phone for a moment.

“Thanks,” Greg said. He sat for a moment, staring into space as new facts floated around his mind, displacing the old, trying to find a way to fit them into his image of himself. Absently one hand rested on his belly, pressing on the softness under his shirt. It was strange that he wasn’t hungry, after so long. Perhaps this had been the answer all along – a severe emotional shock to kill his appetite.

No.

Healthy. He wanted to be healthy, regardless of what that meant for how he looked.

_I don’t want to die._

_I probably won’t, not like my dad did._

_Not alone and grey, years before my time._

This was the thought that tipped him over the edge. Tears rushed forth, brimming and falling before he could react. He didn’t reach up to brush them away, instead looking down, blinking as he felt his shoulders start to shake.

“Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice sounded soft beside him.

Blindly, Greg reached for him, pulled the offered hand closer, needing something to hold, someone to centre him.

Mycroft was rapidly becoming his rock.

Right now he was cradling Greg. His arms were steady and the slow rise and fall of his chest was calming, guiding Greg’s breathing into a solid rhythm. It felt right.

 _He is patient. And kind. He could have been angry, dismissive, snide, but he was not. He was gentle._ The thoughts filled Greg’s mind and he clung to them even as he braced himself to banish the negative emotion that always accompanied thoughts of his father.

Normally he would feel the press of negative emotions being pushed down, hidden away so they didn’t affect him. It made him feel uncomfortably stilted, emotionally fragile as he fought with himself. That was what he was bracing against.

This was different. The painful emotions were still there but they were muted, as though Mycroft was surrounding them, cushioning their barbs. Protecting Greg. Allowing them space, giving Greg the opportunity to accept them without fearing the pain with which they had previously been tangled.

It was…better. Less stifled.

Though he still felt fragile, it was a new, clean sensation.

Something to get used to, certainly. But not a burden.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “You’re very kind.”

“I promised to show you what I see,” Mycroft replied, his hands passing slow circles over Greg’s back. “I intend to follow that commitment through.”

They sat in the slow silence for a while, until Mycroft spoke once more.

“How are you feeling?”

“Calmer.” Greg struggled to find the right words. “As though I…don’t have to…hold it in. It’s there but it doesn’t, I dunno, hurt.” He took a deep shuddering breath. “And you see it…all of it. It’s not a secret with you.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed, and he sounded supremely satisfied with himself.

Greg closed his eyes, drifting, enjoying being close to Mycroft. He felt lighter, freer. The revelation about his father would still take quite some adjustment, but knowing he would have to rethink so many of his deeply held ideas did not fill him with the dread he thought it might.

Mycroft made it easier.

As Greg embraced his newfound peace, Mycroft stirred. “I believe the doctor has arrived,” he murmured, peering at the backlit screen of his phone.

Greg groaned a little, taking one deep breath before sitting up. “Okay,” he replied.

“Are you certain…” Mycroft asked, trailing off. His eyes were soft, the grey examining his face carefully as he watched Greg consider the question.

“Yes,” Greg said with certainty. “I need to know now.” The door had been open, and he couldn’t ignore it.

If his heart was normal, he could let it all go. Hell, even if his heart wasn’t normal at least he’d know.

And Mycroft would be with him.

“Very well. I’ll have him brought to the room.”

Greg nodded, a flutter of nerves rippling through him.


	4. Chapter 4

“Gregory?”

“Come in,” Greg replied. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough to dressed but too tired to finish the job. He smiled tiredly at Mycroft as the man hesitated at the doorway. “Please come in,” he added, relieved when Mycroft actually did.

“How are you?” Mycroft asked, his voice quiet. Tentative. Greg could see soft eyes as Mycroft sat opposite him.

“Good,” Greg replied. “Well, still in shock a bit, but good.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Mycroft said carefully.

Greg took a deep breath. “He wants me to come in for some more tests, more definitive stuff. But he did a physical, blood pressure, some blood samples, looked at my dad’s file.” He could feel the tightly controlled tension radiating off Mycroft.

“He’s pretty sure my heart’s normal.”

Mycroft let out what for him was an explosive breath, though by most people’s standards would barely make a birthday candle dance.

“Blood pressure’s a bit high, and he reckons my cholesterol might be too, but he did a bunch of other stuff and said there was nothing obvious. Apparently the thing with Dad’s heart was just one of those freak things, nothing he would have passed on. Would have just been bad luck if I had it too.”

Mycroft nodded, and Greg could see his eyes were bright at the news.

“Excellent,” he said. “You must be tired, and hungry I assume?”

“Starving,” Greg agreed. “And tired, but I want a shower more than sleep or food right now, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. “Shall I order a meal for half an hour’s time? That would allow you time to shower before it arrives.”

“That sounds great,” Greg replied. He sat quietly while Mycroft made a call, presumably speaking to someone in the kitchen. When he turned back, Greg stood up, gritting his teeth against the spinning room.

“Desperate as I am for a shower,” he said, “there is one thing that ranks higher right now.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, and without speaking, Greg stepped into him. He sighed as their bodies pressed together, the smooth planes of Mycroft’s back against his palms solid and comforting. Greg’s eyes closed of their own accord, his world reducing down to his body – weak, in need of a shower, softer than he wanted it to be – and Mycroft’s – slim and strong, silent as he held on, breathing deeply.

_This moment, this is the new start. He can be the strength I need._

Turning his head, Greg pressed his lips against what he could find – the rough firmness of a jawbone. His eyes were still closed and he slowly tilted his head, shifting his face until he was able to press his lips to Mycroft’s.

It wasn’t until he was standing stock still that he felt the shudder pass through Mycroft. It was matched by the shaking breath as he exhaled, the air brushing unevenly across Greg’s cheek.

Hands came up, cupping Greg’s face, cradling him as though he was the most precious thing in the world. It was so tender, so careful he felt tears threaten. How long had it been since someone had cared so openly for him? Since a careful thumb had caressed his cheek, mindful of his experience rather than their own?

Too long. Far too long.

“Gregory…” Mycroft whispered, as their lips parted. His breathing was as rapid and irregular as Greg’s; his fingers clung as tightly to Greg’s shirt. The emotion was too deep to be newly formed. The knowledge came swiftly and with complete certainty to Greg’s mind.

“How long?” Greg whispered. “How long have you…” he swallowed, not knowing how to finish that sentence.

Mycroft leaned forward, his forehead pressing against Greg’s as he found the words.

“A long time,” he replied, finally. “I had lost hope that you would…perhaps be interested.”

Greg huffed – a mirthless sound. “I have been interested for a while,” he said. “But I would never have…said anything.” Another exhalation, self-deprecating and dangerously close to bitter. “Hardly a catch, especially when I thought…” he stopped, choked up suddenly at the realisation.

_That’s not me anymore._

“No longer, Gregory,” Mycroft whispered. “You have the same chance as anybody else.”

His heart pulsed hard, and Greg felt something inside him crack.

The protective façade he’d built around himself had been under assault ever since Mycroft started gently questioning him. Weaknesses, few as they were, had been found, pressure testing them. The cracks had started subtly, the foundations undermined by Mycroft’s understanding and patience until now.

Now, when he had finally started to accept his new reality, the walls had crumbled – and Mycroft was still there.

Greg smiled shakily. It was still so new, such an adjustment.

“I need a shower,” he said.

“Can you…do you need help?” Mycroft asked quietly.

“Not sure if I need it,” Greg replied, “but I’d like it.” His heart was pounding as he spoke, a careful offer to advance their relationship a little further.

Instead of speaking, Mycroft picked up Greg’s hand, sliding their fingers together before turning slowly towards the en-suite. The few steps towards the bathroom, hand clasped in Mycroft’s, were almost hypnotic. Greg felt himself relaxing, his mind drifting into contentment.

The shower was enormous, bigger than Greg had imagined, especially in a guest en-suite. His mind took hold of the fact and turned it over slowly. He was vaguely aware of Mycroft settling him on the toilet before moving around, collecting a pile of towels and turning on the shower.

Everything was familiar, but different. He was different.

He stood obediently, allowing Mycroft to unbutton the few buttons he’d managed to secure. The slide of his sleeves down his arms was slow, easing him further into his tranquil state. Mycroft was the only real constant; clothes slowly disappearing, steam swirling, his mind grasping at minor details as though they would centre him.

He didn’t need to be centred.

He had Mycroft.

Mycroft’s soft hands, coaxing him behind the glass partition. Mycroft’s shoulders, a place to rest his hands as suds were guided over his body, drawn down by gravity and the flow of water. With his eyes closed, Greg floated even further, the slick shoulders grounding him just enough. Just enough to feel safe, his mind able to wander without fear of becoming lost.

The suds moved slowly across his skin, the slight scratch of a washcloth the only friction. It was smooth, soothing, swirling along with the water. The suds carried the remnants of his fear, the dust of his protective walls washed down the drain forever.

Every part of him was attended to, until Mycroft stood again, arms wrapping around his back, drawing him in. Soft skin, Greg registered. Smooth. Lavender and vanilla, heavy and warm, melting through his soul.

He had no idea how long they stood there.

Eventually, the water slowed and stopped. Greg did not protest as Mycroft eased away, only to return and enfold Greg in an enormous swathe of soft towel. He felt himself hum, the ghost of a smile (too much effort to turn up his mouth properly).

“Bed, Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice said quietly. Again, Greg was compliant, following where he was lead, sitting on cool sheets, leaning against soft pillows. Life was much easier when he didn’t have to make decisions, Greg thought mildly.

Sensation, impressions of his environment, and the steady hands of Mycroft.

“Dinner, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was still quiet as the mattress dipped on one side.

Greg opened his eyes, blinking pre-emptively. The light was dimmer than he’d thought, and he turned, a little disoriented by the change. He found eyes, patient and fond, looking at him.

“Hi,” Greg said.

“Hello,” Mycroft replied.

Greg looked down, belatedly registering the smell of the meal balancing on Mycroft’s lap. He smiled as he recognised the food.

“No additives this time?” he asked, as Mycroft carefully offered him the bowl of chicken soup.

“Certainly not,” Mycroft replied, suppressing a smirk.

It wasn’t just the soup warming him, Greg thought drowsily. He felt at peace, far more than he could ever remember. There was no doubt it was largely down to the new perspective on his health and future; Greg knew he was still processing the changes to his psyche and would be for some time.

As they sat quietly in bed together, Greg felt nourished on two fronts. The soup offered his body strength, but the greater gain was the stability and strength he drew from Mycroft. His quiet presence had borne Greg through this astonishing few days, and he showed no signs of departing.

A thought echoed back from earlier.

_This is the new start. He can be the strength I need._

He smiled around his spoon.


	5. Chapter 5

Warm. He was warm, and there was smoothness, and a comfortable weight.

“Merry Christmas, Gregory,” murmured a voice. It was close and deep and Greg shifted a little as it enveloped him. He felt a hum grow in his throat in response, a deeply satisfied sound.

_Christmas…_

“Wait, what?” Greg rolled a little, blinking towards the familiar voice.

 _Mycroft_ , his mind whispered, amused and amazed in equal measure.

“It’s Christmas?”

A low chuckle from behind him. The vibrations rolled through his chest wall. “Today is Boxing Day, in fact.”

“What?” Greg frowned, thinking. The last few days were a blur. He couldn’t separate the conversations he’d had into specific days. The last definite day he could remember was a couple of days before Christmas. Had it really been so long?

“Merry Christmas,” Mycroft said again. Greg took a deep breath and relaxed as he exhaled, letting go of the anxiety around his lost days. He was here, and Mycroft was here. Merry Christmas indeed.

Greg nuzzled back, feeling his body slide against the sheets…and the skin. He was naked – that much was obvious, and he swallowed down a stab of panic. More to the point, Mycroft was naked, and pressed against him, and given the rapidly swelling hardness Greg could feel, interested.

It was bizarre.

Greg had not considered himself desirable in a long time. There had always been a thread of disbelief, and he could feel it twisting through him still, as stubborn and fibrous as a grapevine. As obvious as Mycroft’s growing interested was, it wasn’t enough to erase decades of ingrained certainty about his body.

Right now, Greg pressed backwards, turning his hips a little, rolling his arse gently against Mycroft, testing for a reaction. The gasp from behind gifted Greg a wisp of confidence. _Maybe…_ He brought his hand up, pressing it over Mycroft’s where it sat on his chest. He slid his fingers between the longer ones, clenching a little as Mycroft’s mouth landed on his shoulder.

It was wet and warm, just the hint of a tongue laving over his skin. Greg’s fingers tightened again and he felt Mycroft’s hips kick a little forward, his cock hard now against Greg’s arse. Astonishment shot through him again, that this scenario should be real instead of another sad fantasy.

“Let me show you,” Mycroft whispered. His words were cool over Greg’s wet skin, the earnest longing piercing his heart and thickening his throat. “Please, Greg…”

Greg opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead he tightened his fingers, pulling Mycroft’s hand down. Greg knew his hand was trembling, and he felt the panic rising as Mycroft’s fingers skated over his ribs then the soft skin of his belly.

_Soft, disgusting, nothing but a pity fuck, you revolting loser…_

Involuntarily his body tightened as the words echoed in his head. Greg felt his hand slow, lifting Mycroft’s fingers from his body.

“I can’t,” he choked out, the wisp of confidence evaporating with the hot tears of shame that bloomed behind his eyes. He pulled his hand out from Mycroft’s, rolling away. The erection that had begun to stir wilted as he pressed his eyes closed, pushing the tears back.

_Fuck, he’ll never stay now. Now that he knows…_

“Please,” Mycroft’s voice came again. “Please let me show you what I see.”

Time stretched as Greg breathed carefully, deep slow breaths to calm his racing heart.

 _No,_ he said, less firmly than he wanted. _No, this could be…I won’t let it be ruined._ He breathed deeply one last time. _I can be brave._

Hesitantly, Greg shifted his hips, allowing his weight to roll him onto his back. Eyes still closed, he reached for Mycroft. His outstretched fingers graced along an arm, settling to a stop around Mycroft’s wrist.

“Okay,” he breathed, not trusting himself to speak aloud.

Greg felt the mattress dip as Mycroft shifted, rolling his hand over to take Greg’s.

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured, the words pressed into Greg’s shoulder. A thousand thoughts were racing through Greg’s head – panic at what he had agreed to and about how Mycroft would see him, stern words to keep himself there, a solid litany of _Oh God, oh God_ , _what if…_

He took a deep breath as Mycroft’s mouth moved upwards. A weight settled beside Greg on the bed as lips traced the shape of his ear.

“Thank you,” Mycroft repeated, the warm air caressing Greg’s ear. “I know we see different things...you felt what the thought of being here with you did to me. Do you remember the shower last night?”

Greg cast his mind back. “Y...yes,” he replied, cheeks warming as he remembered how carefully Mycroft had cared for him. “You were so…kind.”

“I was making sure I didn’t accidentally ravish you,” Mycroft said, chuckling a little. “Your body under the water, Gregory…you are beautiful. Exquisite and masculine…And now, right next to me…I wanted to touch you. I want to touch you now.”

“Yes,” Greg breathed again.

Mycroft’s fingers were gentle again as he brushed over Greg’s shoulder, down his arm and back again. The slow rhythm was soothing. Greg felt himself relax into it as Mycroft breathed in his ear. Mycroft’s fingers took a different path, sliding up Greg’s ribs, a little firmer so he didn’t tickle. It was…nice. More than nice, the warmth moving through him. The breathing in his ear didn’t hurt either, of course; Greg could hear every incremental change in Mycroft’s breath. The gradual changes as his hands roamed carefully, palms sliding flat, avoiding Greg’s stomach. Easing them into touching and being touched.

The consideration was almost enough to make Greg cry. Tentatively, he understood why Mycroft was avoiding his abdomen, and it wasn’t because he was revolted by the softness. He was thinking about Greg, trying to relax him, to make sure he was completely comfortable before touching him there.

Greg’s abs tightened just at the thought, and he consciously relaxed them. Mycroft didn’t pause, though Greg knew he must have noticed. Nothing changed. Mycroft kept soothing him, not drawing attention to the anxiety, just waiting quietly.

The care made Greg’s heart ache.

He wanted Mycroft’s patience to pay off. Even if he cringed at the thought of Mycroft touching his stomach, Greg didn’t want him to go.

_Don’t leave me…_

With a shaking hand, Greg stilled Mycroft’s fingers and pushed them lower, wanting to share this with Mycroft, to show him it was okay. If Mycroft liked it, Greg could endure, for a few moments, at least. Mycroft wouldn’t stay that long, anyway; he could pass over the unpleasant texture on his way to Greg’s cock. That was the point, wasn’t it?

“You sure?” Mycroft breathed, and Greg nodded unconvincingly, his hand still moving.

With infinite care, Mycroft’s hand settled over Greg’s abdomen, bellybutton under his thumb, palm lower still. He didn’t move, just allowing Greg to become accustomed to its weight. Greg clenched his abs automatically, but as Mycroft’s hand sat steadily, he relaxed. A thumb brushed slowly around his bellybutton, pressing slightly into the divot.

Greg shivered as Mycroft’s hand remained on his stomach, ignoring the proximity to his cock. It was weirdly intimate, lying still, with a lover barely touching him, his deepest secret shame on display. He was far more aware of that than his physical nakedness, or Mycroft’s for that matter. This was deeper than any thoughts of modesty.

“I would like to kiss you,” Mycroft murmured. Greg nodded, relieved to be moving onto the sex, and Mycroft spoke again, his thumb dipping pointedly into Greg’s belly button. “Here.”

Greg’s breath caught on the sudden mental image of…

“You want to kiss me there?” he asked. “Why?”

Mycroft pressed a smile into Greg’s shoulder. “Because to me you are beautiful everywhere, and I want to kiss every millimetre of your skin. And I want to start here.”

“But…” Greg bit his lip. He still didn’t understand, but Mycroft seemed quite eager…

“Yes,” he blurted, knowing he was blushing. The view of Mycroft’s head from above as his mouth made contact with skin south of his waist was one Greg had often imagined. If it was at all possible for that to be reality, he was in.

Even if it meant the indignity of Mycroft kissing him there.

Mycroft kissed his ear, his shoulder, his chest, hand still lying in the same place, thumb pressed into his bellybutton. Greg could feel the pattern of his breathing swerving a little – or a lot – but it flew completely out the window when Mycroft’s mouth made contact with his skin, tongue first.

“Fuck,” Greg groaned. It was filthy, how did he do that? They’d gone from soft kisses and gentle caresses to Mycroft tongue-fucking his belly button with more enthusiasm than Greg thought was possible. Either Mycroft was a truly magnificent sex worker (unlikely) or he was actually into this…

Greg went from a little plump to raging erection in seconds.

When something brushed the top of his cock, Greg’s hips bucked without pause.

“Fuck! Sorry, sorry…fuck…” Greg gabbled. It had been Mycroft’s cheek he’d brushed against, and judging from the hum of approval, Mycroft was not upset at all by the fact. It happened again, and Greg found himself gritting his teeth, until it happened again…and again.

“You’re doing that…on purpose,” Greg accused him, panting heavily. _Christ, it was a long time since he’d been here. Lying on a bed clutching the sheets as someone ignores his cock to tongue-fuck his belly button? That’s a new one, actually._

“I believe I am,” Mycroft replied with no remorse. “I’m rather torn between continuing with this and actually showing you how much I am aroused by you.”

Greg gasped. He had no idea what exactly Mycroft had in mind, but judging by the tone of his voice, it would be hot. Hotter than this? Was that even possible without actually fucking?

“Yeah?” he managed. Mycroft’s tongue was probing his belly button again, showing off and promising other things, and it was incredible. Half of him wanted Mycroft to keep going, and the other half wanted to find out what he had in mind.

“Yes,” came the reply. Mycroft turned his head to look at Greg, eyes dark and wild. “Would you like to see what you do to me?”

Greg nodded, eyes closing. It didn’t actually matter what Mycroft had planned. Greg was up for just about anything at this point.

God knew he’d been wrong about the stomach kissing idea.

“Open your eyes,” Mycroft murmured. Greg did, focusing immediately on the figure beside him.

It was a magnificent sight.

Mycroft was sitting up, back on his heels, cock jutting out from his body, eyes locked on Greg. His hands rested on his thighs, pads of his fingers digging in as though he was forcing himself to stay still. To not touch.

_Jesus._

“Are you ready?” Mycroft asked. Greg nodded fervently.

Mycroft’s eyes lowered slowly. It was like a caress. They wandered from Greg’s face to his shoulders, lingering on nipples and scars, the pattern of hair across his pecs. It felt light and tender. Greg felt gooseflesh rising as though Mycroft was actually touching him with those fingers, now clenching his quads hard enough to bruise.

His cock jumped, and Greg saw him swallow.

Without thinking, Greg licked his lips and mimicked him, swallowing hard, realising his eyes rested on Greg’s face.

Another jump, and as Greg’s wide eyes watched, a bead of pre-come oozed out, sitting on the very head of Mycroft’s cock.

_Fuck._

The thought flittered through Greg’s head so fast he barely saw it, chased away by his insecurities.

_Maybe…_

Hesitantly, he reached out, taking Mycroft’s hand, settling it on his chest. Fingers brushed his skin, making him shiver. Watching, searching the expression for the merest hint of scorn or revulsion or pity.

There was none – nothing hidden behind the sharp intake of breath, the twitching cock, tilting the pre-come to slide slowly down the shaft as Mycroft’s lips parted.

The thought was stronger this time, leaving a faint trail.

_He could be…_

Greg watched as Mycroft’s face, open to be read, showed his arousal. The heavy eyes over wide pupils, the panting breaths. Flushed cheeks as only a ginger can manage. Parted lips as though on the verge of begging.

He guided Mycroft’s hand, ignoring the butterflies, feeling the hand tremble as it skirted the gentle bulge around his waist. Another twitch belied his arousal as Greg’s intention became clear.

_He didn’t care about how soft my stomach is…what will he make of this?_

Greg held his breath as he placed Mycroft’s palm squarely on his cock, wrapping those long fingers around him, watching Mycroft for his reaction, pushing away his own reaction to being touched like this.

Everything was still as he held his breath, eyes on Mycroft.

It was subtle, but Greg had had a crash course in Mycroft Holmes the last few moments. He saw the stiffening posture, felt the minor flexion of the fingers…Mycroft was holding back.

Greg didn’t think about it, simply reached out his own hand, fingers skidding through the wetness at the head before skimming down to encircle Mycroft’s cock.

The moan came, loud and guttural, and a flood of smug satisfaction flowed through Greg as Mycroft’s iron control finally broke. The ramrod spine flexed then collapsed, Mycroft’s head bending over Greg as arousal flooded him. The fingers around Greg squeezed hard, and most gloriously of all – Mycroft’s cock pulsed in Greg’s hand.

Experimentally, Greg tightens his grip, uses the wetness on his palm for a slow slide up and down.

This time Mycroft didn’t hold back, and it wasn’t until the first shot of come landed over his chest Greg realised he was coming, body shaking not from restraint but release, the groan combining his name and God’s as Mycroft was rent apart.

“Fuck, Mycroft…” Greg couldn’t help but breathe. When the last shot hit his arm, and Mycroft started to collapse, Greg reached out to catch him, cradling him before he smacked his head on the headboard.

“Gregory,” Mycroft panted, and when something contracted around his cock, Greg realised Mycroft was still holding him there.

“Christ, Mycroft,” Greg groaned. The hand on him was moving, firm and fast and so good…he had no idea if there was lube anywhere, and didn’t even think about it, swiping one hand through the slick mess Mycroft had painted on his shoulder, joining it with Mycroft’s on his cock.

“Oh yes, show me Greg…show me what you like. You saw how hard I came, all over you, all over your beautiful body. I love watching you, can’t wait to kiss you, to lick your skin, taste every part of you,” Mycroft rambled, the images in Greg’s head matching his words until he can’t hold back.

He moaned Mycroft’s name as he came as hard as he could remember.

 _Better than a sad wank on the couch_ , his brain unhelpfully provided, and he battered the thought away, focusing on the incredible aftershocks flowing through his body.

As Greg came down, he stretched, hardly believing what had just happened. He’d made Mycroft come practically untouched. He’d – fuck, that was kind of filthy – he’d used Mycroft’s come to smooth the both of them jerking him off.

Not your average Christmas Day, then…

And as he turned towards Mycroft, Greg realised there was something else rising to the festive occasion.

“Christ, Mycroft, again?”

“I hope this is sufficient evidence of your allure,” Mycroft said, pink cheeked. “I don’t mean to disappoint you but it is unlikely I am capable of another orgasm so quickly.”

“If I was a younger man I would take that as a challenge,” Greg replied, contentment filling him.

_If I was a more confident man, perhaps…_

From the astonishing display he’d just witnessed, there was little he could protest to Mycroft’s claim that he was attractive. The thread of disbelief was still there, but it had softened in the unmistakable evidence of Mycroft’s arousal at the sight of his body. The fibres were less tenacious, and Greg found himself wondering how much evidence it would take for the integrity to fail completely. However long it took Greg hoped that Mycroft would be there with him. The hope was not quite solidified into knowledge, but it was close. Mycroft was patient and calm and incredibly, he directed that patience and calm at Greg and his fucked up, insecure self.

The man was remarkable.

“Thank you,” Greg said, touching Mycroft’s face. “I think I’m still a work in progress, but...” he swallowed, “thank you.”

“If this is a work in progress,” Mycroft said, the smile in his voice, “I’m not sure I shall survive the finished product.”

Greg grinned at him, his heart swelling at the affection winding between them.

“We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love everyone has shown this fic. It is very close to my heart and I appreciate each and every one of you. <3


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